Capture

Sam’s mouth turned down at the corners and she gave me a sincere and sympathetic look. “Kaitlyn, you fell in love with Martin over that week. You trusted him…you slept with him.”

I nodded, glancing down at my fingers. “I know…”

I know I missed the depth of feeling, the loss of control, the surrender to passion, the being lost and found all at once. Being seen. He was still wrapped around my heart and I had no way to evict him. I wasn’t sure I could.

I added, “I know that, before Martin, before our week together, I’d been repressed, stuck without knowing it. But then after we split things were even worse.”

Sam pulled me into a hug as I continued my confession. “He became my compass, my beacon. And before him, I’d been a girl desperately trying to follow the footsteps of expectations even though the shoes didn’t fit.”

“And he helped you see beyond family expectations?”

I nodded against her shoulder. Over spring break I’d started to become a woman who was excited about forging her own path.

I pulled away from my friend, but continued to hold her hand. “Then I left him and he left me. We abandoned each other before I’d discovered what I wanted or who I was. My compass was gone. I couldn’t go back to hiding in closets even though I tried.”

She chuckled at this, adding, “Boy, oh boy, did you ever try.”

I smiled at her. “But the closets don’t fit anymore. Nor do I know how to move forward blindly. I want to be something else, someone else, not Kaitlyn Parker who hides in closets and does what everyone expects.”

“But not everyone has the benefit of a compass or a guide. Most people go blindly into their future.”

I nodded again. “Yes. I figured that out.”

I’d figured out that people did this by trusting their heart.

“Well, we’ve already covered denial, anger, bargaining, and depression. Does this mean you’ve moved on to acceptance?” Sam gave me a wide, hopeful smile that made me laugh.

“Kind of.” I shrugged, my gaze moving over her shoulder as I focused my thoughts. “Think of it this way. The fifth state of matter is a theoretical state—”

“Really? We’re still using the chemistry analogy?”

I continued as though she hadn’t spoken, because the word acceptance didn’t feel quite right. “One could argue the fifth state of matter isn’t theoretical, that it’s a class of states that occur under unusual or extreme circumstances, like Bose–Einstein condensates or neutron-degenerate matter.”

“I have no idea what you just said.”

I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t laugh, but returned my gaze to Sam. “But for the purposes of my stages of grief, I’m going to label the fifth stage as quark–gluon plasmas. It’s a state of matter that is believed to be possible, but remains theoretical…for now.”

“Theoretical?”

“Theoretical because my fifth stage of grief has to do with me getting over Martin, which I admit hasn’t happened yet. And it also centers on finding my purpose, but using only myself as a compass.”

“You can also use me as a compass, you know. I’m very good with the aforementioned unsolicited advice.”

If I hadn’t realized it before, I realized now that Sam was a singularity of awesomeness. “I know, and I will. But it’s more than just moving on from Martin. It’s a stage where I become comfortable in my own skin, happy with where I am, what I’m doing, and who I’m doing it with.”

“So, it’s theoretical.”

“Yes.” I nodded, finally returning Sam’s hopeful grin. “It’s still theoretical. But it’s possible.”

***

-Eight months post-breakup-

I found my mother in the garden.

She was home for the Congressional Thanksgiving recess. Growing up, I’d always thought it funny that the US government took a recess, like little kids took recess in primary school. I imagined the Speaker of the House hanging upside down on monkey bars and the majority leader shaking down junior senators for lunch money.

I knew we’d be seeing each other because it had been on the Sunday agenda for the last month. I’d been mentally preparing for this meeting. She’d said I needed some time before we discussed my months-long absence from her life and my decision to take a semester off school.

But the time had come. I needed to talk to her about it, even though it was messy and unsettled. I needed her to listen without trying to fix.

When I found her in the garden, I announced to her back, “I want to be a musician. I want to pursue music and major in it and I don’t want to be a scientist or a politician.”

My mother turned as I spoke, stared at me for a beat, her forehead wrinkling slightly, probably because I wasn’t prone to outbursts. Then she nodded and said, “Okay.”

I waited for her to continue, maybe add a, But you’re on your own… or But when you come to your senses… or something similar. She didn’t.

When she just continued looking at me, my suspicions burst forth. “You think this is a phase, right?”

My mom took a deep breath, glanced briefly at the ground, then returned her gaze to mine. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“You’re disappointed in me? Because I took off this semester? Because I’m not following in your footsteps? Because I’m—”

She held up her hands and cut me off. “Kaitlyn, stop. Stop. Stop putting words in my mouth. I’m not disappointed in you. I’m disappointed in myself.”

I frowned at her, studying my mother in her navy pants suit, and light blue shirt, and the little United States flag on her lapel. Finally I asked, “Why?”

“Because you obviously need my support and I have no idea how to give it to you.” She crossed to me, her eyes searching, then pulled me into an unexpected hug.

When she spoke next I felt her chin move against the side of my head. “I’m not…I’ve never been very good at being maternal.”

I laughed, partly because I hadn’t expected her to say it and partly because it was true.

She squeezed me. “I’m good at being rational, methodical, and solving problems with logic and analysis. But, try as I might, I’ve never been able to figure out how to provide the comfort that you’ve needed. And I’m sorry.”

Every one of my internal organs flooded with the warmth of relief that accompanies hope. I squeezed her in return, unable to help myself. “You’re forgiven.”

She stepped back, but her hands remained on my arms. She was clearly frustrated. “I don’t know how to help you or be what you need, Kaitlyn.”

“Can you listen?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Without trying to problem solve or find a superior solution to my issues?”

She hesitated, her eyes narrowing, looking incredulous. “You mean, just listen?”

I nodded.

She stared at me, appeared to be firming her resolve, then said, “For you, absolutely.”

***

-Nine months post-breakup-

“Are you ever going to go out with Fitzy, or what?”

I let my befuddlement show on my face by widening my eyes and looking from side to side.

All I wanted was a bottle of water.

“What you talkin’ ’bout, Willis?”

I enjoyed asking my bandmate this question, mostly because his name was actually Willis. Usually no one my age had any idea that the question was a reference to a 1980s TV show I used to watch with my dad called Different Strokes.

Willis glanced over his shoulder to where Abram the bass player, Janet the lead guitarist and saxophonist, and Fitzgerald our singer and second guitar—aka Fitzy for short—were finishing the sound check. Since Willis held my water bottle hostage, I followed his gaze and found Fitzy watching us. When he saw our attention focused on him, Fitzy averted his blue-eyed stare and began messing with his mic stand, his shaggy brown hair falling adorably over his forehead.

Willis turned back to me, leveled me with his dark brown eyes. Like the rest of us, Willis was dressed in a tuxedo, bowtie, cummerbund, the whole get up. Unlike the rest of us, Willis was in his mid-forties and never minced words.

Unfortunately, he chopped his words instead, usually with a dull blade or a mallet. Willis’s thoughts were often sporadic and hard to follow; as well his analogies didn’t quite make sense.

“Listen, Cupcake. He’s got it bad for you, like a porcupine and a balloon. Now, I don’t care what y’all do in your free time, but I’m tired of losing good people because you kids can’t keep your seatbelts fastened. We lost Pierce, our last pianist, when Janet and he refused to work together after six weeks on a mattress tour. They drew straws and he came up espresso—you see?”

I nodded, trying to follow. “So, Janet and Pierce, your last piano player, were a thing? And it didn’t end well?”

“It never ends well.” Willis narrowed his dark brown eyes and pressed his mouth into a flat line. He was bald, his head completely shaved, and the collar of his dress shirt didn’t quite hide the tattoos on the back of his neck. This didn’t affect our squeaky image since he was our drummer and sat at the back of the stage. Also, he was my boss.